The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Downay had his coat off, calling out a name. Twice. Loudly. “Angelle. Angelle.” He shouted in the way a farmer calls to cows.

  There were three high windows spaced along the far wall (in fact they looked down into the street). To left and right, in the adjacent walls, were two doors. The one on the right opened—it was the kitchen door—and the girl came in, smiling, wiping her hands on the big apron she wore over a plain grey dress.

  “This is Georges.” Downay went on to introduce her. “Angelle lives here. She is safe—our head cook and bottle washer as you say in England. Just as Kuche and Wald are our way to the hearts of the Boche, Angelle is our way to the heart of France.”

  She was tall. As tall as Downay. It was the first thing George noticed about her. The second, though far from being her finest quality, was her hair—a reddish gold, indescribable as one definite colour. George doubted if she helped it with a bottle. In some lights it looked red, in others it was more like that soft thick silky gold which so many Scandinavian women seem to possess. On other days, and in other lights, it took on every possible variation in between.

  (Later, George said, “I particularly remember a heavy afternoon, when the sky over Paris seemed to reach down onto the rooftops, heavy with leaden rain, when her hair was transformed into that dark beech-red of autumn. But that was much later, and in the open air, and so many things were by then distorted by what I learned to think of as tricks of light.”)

  She came towards him, holding out her hand like royalty. As their fingers touched and he looked into her face, George first saw the most essential and embracing virtue of Angelle Tours: humour. It was as if some pent-up geyser of comedy was always about to burst from that tall and elegant body. You saw it on the mouth and in her eyes: in the way she moved her face. Later, he was to find that the effervescence within was not always comedy. Tragedy was there also, and, while nine times out of ten it was humour that came out, the tenth time was nearly always tears.

  But, at that moment of meeting it was sheer bubble, and he could read it all in her face and in the way she fluttered her hands—pale, butterfly hands, the long fingers of which ran riot as she spoke. Angelle illustrated conversation with her fingers, as illuminating as the way some continentals illustrate words with the whole of their hands or their arms and shoulders.

  “How did you take to Castor and Pollux?” She had a laugh that was more of an epidemic than an infection.

  Downay caught the laugh, chuckling to himself. “It’s her name for Kuche and Wald. Apt in the circumstances.”

  George said that it was as apt as the code name for their own network—Stellar.

  Downay nodded. Would George care to eat now; or coffee, even a little brandy? George opted for the brandy and was motioned towards one of the chairs in front of the stove. He would be shown his bed later.

  Angelle, still laughing, disappeared into the kitchen and Downay’s face went grave. “Stellar is good. What instructions have you brought?”

  Let him come to you, Fenice and Ramilies had both said. Before you commit us to anything, make him spill the lot. Remember he’s a psychologist and knows more about Nostradamus than we do. Your cover may be as his curate in prophecy, but your real job is to protect our interests and see that what has to be done, is done.

  On the last night, Ramilies had said, Keep the distance; hear him out and then hear him again. After that, keep listening until you’re certain. When it’s time, feed him gently.

  The brandy arrived. Raw spirit.

  “The SS seem to treat you like an oracle,” George began. “What’s the deal?”

  Of course, Downay said, you will want to know the whole thing.

  It was a good story and he told it straight-out, as though it was well rehearsed, without pausing long enough for George to ask questions. In the kitchen, Angelle clattered around. Hear him out and then hear him again.

  24

  PARIS 1941

  MICHEL DOWNAY SAID THAT if things had been different he might have gone to England. Friends and colleagues urged him constantly during the week before the fall of Paris. “I thought about it. Who wouldn’t?”

  If his politics had been wishy-washy. If he’d had any faith in the government; in Reynaud, Daladier, Laval—any of them, he might have gone. Like a lot of other people in France he had seen it coming. (Like a lot of other people in England also, George thought.)

  We had a brave army, Downay sighed. Sons of the thousands who died with courage on the Somme. They didn’t let their fathers down. They were, themselves, betrayed: by ineffective politicians and old, revered generals who learned nothing from progress.

  It was the same at the Sorbonne—or so he believed. The establishment was, on the whole, past its prime, living on former academic glories. Old men, most of them, and, though men full of years were supposed to be wise sages, the larger portion had closed minds. Their wisdom held no truth for the present.

  “There were a few of us, teachers and students—intellectuals if you like—who were liberal and progressive in our thinking.”

  For liberal and progressive, read Communist, thought George. At the Abbey they nagged, If you’re cut off, go to the Communists or the Church. Preferably the Communists.

  Three days before the Wehrmacht entered Paris, Michel made up his mind. It was now or never. People poured out. Others shrugged. He would stay.

  “I know enough people. I have people here in Paris and I know others—all over—who made the same decision. Carry on. Go about your work, but organise. Organise resistance. Some have, as the American western films say, taken to the hills. Maquis.” He breathed the word in a tone reserved for the most brave and the most foolhardy.

  The right way was to go out and meet the enemy on their own terms. Play collaborator if need be. But organise all the time. He thumped his black cane into the carpet, asking, rhetorically when help would come. “We need people over here. You’ve promised to help, but they have not come. We need organisers; communications; arms and explosives.”

  The Nazis wanted collaboration; they wanted the country intact—labour, police, judiciary, agriculture, and industry. God knew, they made it plain enough. They wished to work in harness. In a common cause. Some bastards had even fallen for it.

  They were thorough, the Boche. That was a fact. We knew they would have lists—Downay thumped the floor again. But we also knew the only ones who needed to fear were the Jews and subversives—and, perhaps, the old and infirm.

  It had taken the Boche only three weeks to arrive at Michel Downay’s door. Then not the Boche but the French. Two of them. Very polite. Plainclothesmen. Les flics. A few details. Just simple facts. Name. Birth date. The things already on the carte d’identité. Verification.

  Two days later, Kuche and Wald came around. “Living Wagnerians,” Downay called them. Nordic gods of destiny. Merde. Wald even had a scar on his chin—you noticed it?—imagined that it was a duelling scar. Wrong. It was a fall, but Downay only found that out later. Wald got drunk and fell down some steps.

  However, there they were, full of courtesy, and charm, and Herr Doktor, acknowledged expert of psychology, learned scholar of Astrology and the Modern Mind. (“They had got that—the title of my new treatise, and it’s not yet written—not finished anyway.”) Maestro—he scoffed as though this was what they had called him, playing with languages—Maestro of the Nostradamus Prophecies.

  If he had set out to bait a trap in 1937, when he began to write The Prophet of Salon, Downay could not have expected more. There were gentlemen from Berlin, Kuche and Wald said, who would like to talk to him about a project. Would he come? Quite informal.

  They drove to the Crillon. Downay did not care for that. He knew just how informal the Crillon was these days with the High Command using it as their headquarters. Still, it was better than the house on the Avenue Foche where the Gestapo held court.

  Downay went into an almost sentimental reverie—“It’s a little easier now—not the Crillon, but Paris.
Or, perhaps it’s because I’m working for them.” He rose and started to limp across the room, painfully leaning on the cane. “This was last year, don’t forget. Now it’s this year, and soon it will be Paris in the spring again. A lot of people are trying to forget who the monsters are, walking among us, drinking our wine, fucking our girls, eating our food, and running our lives into hell knows what. Then. Last year. Then, the streets were empty and the curfew very strictly enforced—one hour before dusk. They roamed the streets. Sometimes the bars and cafes did not open at all. Paris seemed…” He hesitated as though emotionally full. “Empty. Streets. Bars. Shops. Boulevards. Like a woman whose doctor has told her that she is barren. That was Paris. It’s different now. The woman has adjusted and lives with her grief, or is having a good time because of what the doctor has told her. She has accepted the illusion of safety.”

  At the Hotel Crillon there were three men, in civilian clothes. They stood up when Kuche and Wald brought him in. Stood, and treated him with great respect: hoped the unfortunate, but necessary, activities of the military had not disturbed him too much. The war was a sad business and they had not asked for it. Hadn’t Frenchmen said, in 1939, that the British would fight to the last drop of French blood? The Führer had not wanted this. But, did not Downay agree, there was a common enemy now? Negotiations were going on at top level with the Americans. England would have to capitulate sooner or later. All they wanted was to save more bloodshed. As a good and loyal Frenchman—as a scholar, a thinking man, it would be wrong for him not to assist in bringing that day closer—sooner rather than later.

  They were proud of the fact that they had come with a direct request from the Reichsminister of Propaganda: Doktor Goebbels himself. Did he know that the Reichsminister was a great admirer of his work on Nostradamus? Did he know the Führer, himself, was a devotee. Astrology was the new science. Had not Nostradamus already prophesied Hitler’s greatness and destiny?

  Downay had neither agreed, nor disagreed.

  Don’t give him a hint, Ramilies whispered in George’s ear. Until you have all the proofs of the existence of God cut and dried, with a personal signed statement from Holy Trinity—in triplicate and authenticated by the College of Cardinals. Until then, don’t let him know you think it’s all a load of old balls.

  Downay responded to his hosts by saying that the Reichsminister was very kind. If there was anything he could do…Well, if it was within his capabilities.

  Who better? They smiled warmly at him. Gave him a drink. The Reichsminister already had astrologers working for him. There was one particular man from Switzerland. Herr Doktor Downay, though, was the most qualified man in Europe regarding the prophecies of Nostradamus. The messages of the great prophet had to be reinterpreted now that the Third Reich had won the bulk of Europe. Surely that was a challenge the Herr Doktor could not resist?

  The Reichsminister was convinced, and they understood the Führer agreed, that Nostradamus was the great prophet of the Nazi Party. Its destiny could be found in the quatrains. It was essential, to bring the present troubles to a quick and conclusive end, for someone with the brilliance of the Herr Doktor to set forth in plain terms—terms which could be understood by even the most ignorant—that the future was safe in the keeping of the Party and those who led it.

  They needed to have chapter and verse to prove to the dissidents within the already occupied countries, to Britain, and to the rest of the world, that further conflict was useless. Could the Herr Doktor? Would the Herr Doktor take on this momentous task?

  Smooth as butter; Downay said he would have to think about it. They drove him home and he got a message off in double-quick time (“I believe it came to London through a fisherman. They’re still getting some messages over on the boats, yes?”)

  They left him alone for three days. Then Kuche and Wald once more. Still very polite, but this time they took him to their commanding officer, General Frühling. The general—Downay puffed his cheeks and laid a hand to his belly—had also been charming, but came out straight away with the statement that he understood the Herr Doktor was working for Reichsminister Goebbels. If he could be of any help. It had been suggested that the Herr Doktor be removed to Berlin where he could be closer to the Ministry of Propaganda. “They were not asking me anymore. They were telling me.”

  Downay stalled. Got the messages through to London. Saw the pianist they sent in from Austria, and played the game of waiting for his brilliant young colleague Georges Thomas.

  It had been difficult, but the fiction kept the ball rolling until now. Only just. They were pressing for results. Talking about Berlin.

  “Balthazar arrived yesterday, thank God,” Downay suddenly volunteered.

  George was twitchy. At the Abbey they had told him the pianist, Balthazar, had gone in from Switzerland long before this. Unbreakable cover. Safe as houses and very experienced. Fenice speaking. Myra Hess.

  “He’s here?” George meant in Downay’s apartment.

  “My God, no. I’m not having him sitting on my doorstep.” Downay made Gallic noises and explained that Balthazar was holed up with some girl in a garret near St. Sulpice. He didn’t actually say that the girl was one of his students. He did say that George had a rendezvous with Balthazar that night in a bar on the Boul. Mich. which did nothing for the fear flies in his gut. It would mean flying solo in Paris.

  Downay laughed. “It is not so bad, my friend. Each time it will get easier. You are one of us, and must move like one of us now.”

  George preferred to be an ostrich for the time being. He turned the subject, asking if Downay had given any thought to the prophecies—Nostradamus and the Nazi Party.

  For a second he thought Downay had gone coy on him, then realised that Angelle had come into the room and was fussing about laying the table for their meal.

  “A good deal of thought.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps we could discuss it later.” Like, not in front of the children, or the servants, or his mistress, if that was what she was.

  George started acting (“Foxy was what Ramilies called me”) and put on a troubled look, saying that he was uncertain about the ethics involved—unless they could prove, beyond doubt, that Nostradamus had indeed made predictions concerning this particular era, and the part in which the Party had to play in it.

  Downay laughed again. Then looked puzzled, as though he had just understood what George meant.

  Play him as if you’re a one hundred per cent believing virgin that we’ve dug up from the occult community. So Ramilies, on the night of the labyrinthine cunning.

  Throughout lunch, Downay continued to look at George with the same unsure puzzled expression, but said nothing about the prophecies until they had finished eating.

  The meal was simple. They spoke of Paris and the general situation, Downay being subtle and trying to feed George information that would be of use once he got onto the streets.

  Then they touched politics, and Angelle, who had bubbled and taken nothing very seriously throughout the meal, raised her eyes to heaven declaring that politics was the worst subject ever; food and clothes were the things she liked best. Food, clothes, and literature. Was George a literary man? Did he like Jane Austen?

  Afterwards, Downay said he had to go over to the Sorbonne. “To keep up the fiction.” Angelle would show George his room. She left them for a moment, and, as he walked to the door, Downay swivelled on his stick—

  “Think hard about what we are doing, Georges. Nostradamus may be your bible, but we have to play with him, misquote him, and tamper with him if we are to do the thing properly.” He said they would talk again later, and stumped out.

  Angelle came back as the door closed, then turned away when George looked at her, as though she did not want him to see her face: hiding some private sorrow.

  The room they had prepared for him was small and functional, and by the time she had finished giving George a quick guided tour of the apartment, Angelle was her effervescent self again. There were
things she had to do in the kitchen.

  “Like washing up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “You like some coffee, George?” Big Herbie sensed it was a strain.

  “Could I?” Brow creased. “It’s not easy. When you know the whole story—who was really who, and doing what. It’s difficult. I’ve tried to clear the mind and give you the impression I got in those first hours. Are you sure it’s what you need?”

  Herbie said it was perfect. All that he could remember. The more the better. Think himself back. He got the coffee and had just poured when the telephone burred.

  “They’ve gone private like you said.” Vernon-Smith.

  “I told you.”

  “Tried your office. They said you were at home.”

  “They said I was at home and didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “I had to disturb you. I’ve got them on carrying illegal weapons. Could manage a holding charge, but I doubt the magistrate will wear it. Out in a trice. Easy bail.”

  “Try. Try to keep them until Thursday night at the earliest. Oh, and clean them out.”

  “They’re like a mortuary on Christmas Day. Both of them.”

  “Try.”

  Back with George Thomas, Herbie took a gulp of coffee and reflected that he would rather have brandy but it was too early.

  “I’d like to hear about Angelle. First impressions. That’s all very important, George.”

  “I was just coming to her.”

  Another cup of coffee and he was off again. Herbie thought he could see it in his eyes, drifting back over the years to that austere apartment in Paris. 1941.

  25

  PARIS 1941

  ANGELLE WAS A PRATTLER, talking on and on—skipping over subjects like a stone across a still pond and making as many ripples. Nothing seemed still and quiet when she was about. Everything was punctuated by bouts of laughter, and it was only when George slipped in a question—if she had always lived in Paris?—that the smile went out of her eyes and seemed to be drained from her personality.